


all ends well

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: "John."He breathes John's name like it was the last time he'll say it. His voice rough. His chest constrict. He can feel it.It won't be long...Soon...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cicatrize](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884948) by [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia). 



_"Good Morning, dear!"_

_The cheerful greeting from the maiden nurse echoed in the gloomy silence of the dark room. She carried the tray of warm soup, a glass of water and a small dish with eight pieces of pills in it to the bedside table. Vitamins, maintenance medicine, some pills to numb the pain—still a little help was all it could do for her patient. She sighed._

_"What a wonderful morning we're going to be having eh?" She beamed a smile at her patient bravely._

_No answer. It's okay, she thought. It's still her job to talk even if the one she's talking to doesn't answer. Although, it's much better if the old man with the thinning hair, would talk again to her. But during a meeting with the assigned doctors for her patient, the diagnosis wasn't good. It never got better. First it was just pneumonia, then, a minor heart attack—she was there, thank the Lord! but now it was something else. The old man's body was deteriorating. The result of old age, and the things her patient used to do in the past, the doctor said—it wouldn't be that long._

_Soon..._

_She glanced at her beautiful patient—head with a greying tousled hair was leaning to the headrest of the red worn-out armchair. Judging from the faded photos decorating the mantelpiece by the dresser, the old man had a mess of raven curls atop his head when he was younger and eyes that seemed to hold the universe in them. Eyes that were sparkly and bright _only_ on some selected photographs—whereas his patient was with someone. A small built of a man with a sandy blonde hair, eyes just like the bluest of seas, the bluest of skies—And she knew, of course. _

_The armchair, though, was never theirs. It was owned by the old man himself. She remembers the first day when the old man arrived on the Care of Helping Hands. Brought himself on their front door with some of his things. He was still able to walk and sprout brilliant things from that thin lined lips of his. A bit slouched on his cane but could still held his head up high if he wanted to. She was amazed—she even thought of wishing she had met the old man when he was younger but of course, what a silly thought—she wasn't even born when this old man reflected the image of an aristocrat English, worthy of a million praises. But although she was aware that the old man, did received praises—there was that aura of sadness that she could feel from him._

_She walked to the curtains of the window, opening the long fabric, making way for the Sussex breeze to enter the room when she noticed the skies._

_"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" the nurse blurted out, all of a sudden, jumping excitedly.  
"—look! What a beautiful clear canvas of blue!" She exclaimed as she pointed out her a finger towards the sky, almost missing the sharp intake of a breath—_

"I know you're awake."  
A voice said. Calm. Collected.  
A familiar voice.  
A familiar warmth on his chest.  
A familiar _pain, in his heart_ as Sherlock acknowledged the owner of the voice—

"John." He breathes John's name like it was the last time he'll say it. His voice rough. His chest constrict. He can feel it.

_It won't be long...  
Soon..._

"Sherlock, it's been a while, love."  
John crouched on his knees and kneels in front of him, hands resting over his hand.

But Sherlock couldn't move.  
His legs are failing him.  
He couldn't stand.  
His arms wanted to reach out.  
He couldn't lift them up.  
He wanted to...  
Oh, how he wanted to.

"I can't..." Sherlock breathed out.

"I know. It's okay. It'll be alright." said John as he squeezed both of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock caught his breath. Tears welled up into his eyes. His whole body trembled as John reached a warm hand against the coldness of his cheek. And Sherlock's tears fell.

"I... I'm here now." He said.

"Yes. A life well lived, Sherlock. Well lived. And I am so _proud_ of you. Thank you for living both of our lives so well."

Sherlock looked up and saw John in tears as well.

"It's not a lifetime though... I promised a lifetime," said Sherlock, weakly. John shook his head lightly. "A life well lived equals a lifetime." Then John smiles.

"You have waited..." Sherlock said, his breathing slows.

"Of course. Although, I've always been with you."

"Mm..." He closed his eyes and whispered. "Until.. the.. very end.."

"That's right, love." John replied, as he let go of Sherlock's hands to stand—Sherlock thought he was leaving him, again. But instead, John threaded their fingers and helped him to stand.

"Until the very end," John repeated, with a calming smile, as he beckoned at Sherlock to look behind.

Sherlock stood looking at the armchair behind him. John's armchair and his. And that's when he understood—Ah, It was a lifetime already.

He felt John's hands entwined with his as he turned to find John with a smile painted on his lips and reflected in his eyes—so blindingly beautiful. Indeed. The colour of the sky.

"So, here I am now." said John, as he led Sherlock forward. "Nothing's changed—always fetching Sherlock Holmes." John chided in a playful voice.

Sherlock laughed and was surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. Young, vibrant, and seeing John beside him, smiling and so full of life—a familiar warmth started to spread in his chest.

"John—" Sherlock whispered, as he let go of his breath.

"Mm?" John replied.

"Thank you—" said Sherlock, calmly.

"For what?" John stops on walking and turns to him with a frown.

"For coming for me..." Sherlock replies.

John nods affectionately, "You're welcome love, and know that in any lifetime, I'd come for you. Always."

And with that Sherlock smiles.

They took a step forward when John beside him halted turning towards him once again. And then John gazed up at him looking him in the eyes affectionately. "Oh—and uh. I love you too, Sherlock. More than I should've said and more than I should've showed."

Sherlock looked back at John, nodding thoughtfully. "John—I love _you_ more. More than enough." He said as he smiled.

Then John started giggling, shaking his head. "You tosser. Do you always have to say the more meaningful things?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well—I wasn't called a genius for nothing."

And just like the first time they had solved a case together, John and Sherlock giggles as they continued walking.

  
Sherlock tells John of every single case he could remember.  
And they talk about of how he had solved them.  
And his flatmate, friend, bestfriend, love of his life, was still amazed by him.  
And it's all well...  
Here, with John, at last.  
As they walk hand in hand under the blue sky.

Once again, he's saved.  
Saved by John Watson.

All ends well.

_The maiden turned immediately towards the armchair upon hearing it—the sharp intake of a breath behind her and witnessed as her patient convulsed. Propping a pillow over the old man's fragile head—she quickly runs to the door and shouted for help._

_As the door to the patient's room softly closes—the beats of a fragile heart ceases and the hand of the old man falls by his side—his head tilting to the armrest, succumbing in a very deep slumber at last._


	2. in another lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The flow of his thoughts halts as he watches the guy smile and exhale like he had seen something interesting in the bland blue sky. Unconsciously, the tall teenager looks up and finds himself staring at the blue sky too. Nothing's up there. But calmness, serenity, peacefulness—_

In London,

A man with a sandy blonde hair, and a jacket slung to his back crosses the intersection. He looks up momentarily, stopping to appreciate the morning sky. A blanket of blue just like his eyes.

A tall teenager, with raven dark hair of tousled curls crosses from the other side, evading the pedestrians as much as he can. Not minding the looks of awe from them. He's quite used to it. In his arms are some file folders piled neatly about some sort of experiment and a phone on hand. 

Then he stops. He sees a guy standing ten steps across him. 

_Who in their right mind would stand in the middle of the lane to look up in the sky? Someone suicidal?_  
He thought. 

His eyes narrows.  
He's nearing the guy.

 _Probably in his twenties?_ He deduces. _Mm, and a med student, with an alcoholic sib—_

The flow of his thoughts halts as he watches the guy smile and exhale like he had seen something interesting in the bland blue sky. Unconsciously, the tall teenager looks up and finds himself staring at the blue sky too. Nothing's up there. But calmness, serenity, peacefulness—

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice asks. 

The teenager startles at the sound of the voice. It was so familiar. But he couldn't point out where he heard it. And then his gaze drops to its owner. 

It was the guy who was standing. 

And right now, the two of them are face to face in the middle of the lane.

He catches his breath as he was welcomed by a pair of eyes, as blue as the sky and he couldn't help but look up again, and then back at the guy. 

"Hello," the guy whispers with a small smile in his face. 

_Oh._

It was beautiful, indeed, the teenager realises. And then the guy held a hand in front of him. And again, something in his mind tells him it was a familiar gesture.

Yes _of course,_ it was.

The guy then introduces himself.  
And that's when the teenager saw it, inside his head.

A flash of a laboratory, two men entering. A phone held by a hand. A door with a crooked knocker. A blurry candlelit dinner. A set of pills, a gun, a gunshot—the teenager flinches. And the guy noticed it.

"Are you alright?" the guy asks, the concern in his voice unmasked.

And the teenager was grateful for the concern. He should say thanks but instead he says, "What a bland name—"

To his surprise, the guy laughed.  
And oh, how beautiful it was too. 

"Yes it was," the guy says, as he shrugs his jacket, passing the teenager, making him panic. 

"Scott!" He blurts out. 

The guy turns sharply, looking at the teenager in amusement.  
"What?" the guy asks softly. 

"Scott is.. my middle name," says the teenager quietly as he walks to the guy—from where he came from. He doesn't even know why he's doing it. He just felt, he needs to do it. 

The guy nodded thoughtfully, "I see, and what's the first?" 

The busy intersection of London continued to buzz with their usual noise. As the sandy blonde haired guy walks with the tall teenager like they were no stranger to one another. 

Like they were always meant to be doing that.  
Like they were meant—to be.  
_Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was actually included in my original draft. But i was so ill last night that I wasn't able to type it all. Finished it this morning though. All ends well, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Always grateful to zigostia. She has been an unwavering source of inspiration to some of my works. And Thank you once again for your gift. I treasure it...
> 
> This idea has been left on the back of my mind after I've read zigostia's cicatrize. But all in all, in every MCD I've written, I've always thought that John would always be the one to go to Sherlock when it's _time_. A promise of loyalty. And so this ficlet was born, in the midst of me, literally, shaking, fever, cough and cold—not really well, ar the moment. But I do hope, to those who have read cicatrize with me would find comfort as well. Just like I did. 
> 
> By the way, zigostia wrote an even better _healing_ than this one—I have to say, it was so brave of me to write this after she wrote one yesterday and gift it to me. Please read it too. Thank you.
> 
>  
> 
> _Again, this one was unbeta'ed, for the love of mistakes—_
> 
> Link to [Hiraeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15239163)


End file.
